


Something like Catnip

by Tenoko1



Category: Supernatural
Genre: M/M, Magical Accidents, Scenting, Witches, catnip
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-05-05
Updated: 2017-05-05
Packaged: 2018-10-28 10:34:43
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,501
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10829514
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Tenoko1/pseuds/Tenoko1
Summary: Dean gets hit with an incomplete spell that leaves him with the unusual sensory ability of smells associated with people, like an aura being sensed olfactorily.Which is all well and good, he's not hurt, so no harm, no foul- even if Sam always smells like cinnamon and a bakery, making Dean hungry all the time.It becomes a problem when he smellsCas, though.





	Something like Catnip

**Author's Note:**

> This was an idea I had that accidentally turned into a ficlet. Sorry?

Spell’s incomplete when it gets tossed at Dean by the witch to try and slow him down, leading to only Dean getting affected, and to him ending up with the ability to scent people like something out of an urban fantasy novel.

Since Dean’s not hurt, they aren’t too worried by it- even if Dean tends to follow Sam around or even get mad because “Fucking hell, Sam, you smell like a damn bakery. I need something with cinnamon now.”

Sometimes the smell has obvious meanings no one mentions, like how Mary smells like a burnt pie- love that turns into disappointment.

Sadder still, and a secret he keeps to himself, is when Dean digs out Charlie’s left behind duffle he’d kept just in case… just in case. He cries when he smells her. Cries like he never got to when he lost her.

Coming into the library to see Castiel seated in one of the chairs, Dean’s eyes sort of glaze over, and the next thing he knows there’s a hand on his shoulder and one at his waist (not the same person) and two people saying his name in concern, and Dean blinks and pushes himself up and back, like dragging himself awake from sleep- though he knows he’s awake- with a gruff, “ _What_?” and Sam can’t seem to even make words, though his face does a series of odd things, and then he hears a low, “Dean" soft and pointed and near, and Dean finds himself blinking in confusion into blue eyes aaannnddd Dean has somehow crawled into the chair to straddle Cas’ lap and basically bury his nose at Cas’ neck and shoulder breathing him in.

He kind of wants to get back to that, actually.

Sam shifts around, brows furrowed and hazel eyes more worried than amused. “Dude, are you high? Cas, I think you got him _high_. Look at his pupils.”

Dean feels high, actually, and snickers with the realization. And kind of want to lick a stripe up Cas’ neck. From the flush of heat on the angel’s face, Dean thinks he might have already. And, oh yeah, aside from giggles, that’s another side affect when Dean and drugs mix, which he can feel very evidently as he shifts to try and shove himself away.

“Sam, get him away from me. Or me from him,” a laugh, “He’s already catnip, but now I _really_ wanna climb him like a tree,” followed by more giggles.

Sam drags him away, barking orders for Dean to both stop fighting him as well as to stop talking, herding him out into the garage, and Dean nearly purrs when he scents the Impala, happily climbing into the car and lounging back with a sigh. Home. Peace. Contentment. Fresh leather and fir trees.

“You… better now?” Sam asks worriedly. He’s breathing heavily like he had to practically drag Dean the rest of the way, scared and aggravated in one.

Dean can only chuckle and wave him away, before settling back to sleep, the buzz and bubbles of heat washing into perfect relaxation.

 

The next time he wakes, it’s to fingers gripping his chin and turning his head, and Dean is suddenly very alert at the sight of Rowena and Sam, eyes zeroing in on her as the rest of the world goes into soft focus.

She waves his brother away. “Run along, Samuel. He’ll be fine.” Standing, she offers out her hand, which he immediately takes, letting her lead him from the garage. “We’ll be in the library.”

Dean’s obedient as she tells him to sit on the end of the table, eyes studying her as she moves, pulling things from a carpet bag and setting them on the table near a bowl.

“It smells like Lysol,” he says softly.

“They wanted to make it safe for you to come back in the bunker.” She glances at him with a coy smirk. “Heard you made quite the display.”

He can’t stop staring, fingers reaching out to pluck at one long curl. “You don’t, though.”

She falters with a blink, expression going guarded as she busies herself. “And what _do_ I smell like?”

“Sweet, like sunlight and honey on the tip of your tongue,” he answers a little dreamily. He feels like he’s been laying out in the sun and napping. “It’s warm like tea. Flowers in springtime. It suits you somehow.” There’s pink on her cheeks even as he releases the coiled lock. “What’s wrong with me?”

She pats his knee. “Nothing serious,” she comforts, voice soft and, for once, genuine. “Your body is under the effects of an incomplete spell for a sixth sense and psychic abilities. Your brain is interpreting partial readings of the world around you using the senses you have- all well and good, so long as you’re dealing with a mortal.” Straightening, she taps the tip of his nose with her finger. “The supernatural on the other hand? You smell magic on me, aye? Things a bit warm and fuzzy at the edges? Feel a wee floaty? Like a dream?” He nods. “Aye. That’ll do it.”

He struggles to remember, earlier in the library when he’d had a bad- or very _good_ reaction to- “Cas.” He looks at her. “What happened with Cas?”

Her lips purse like she’s trying not to smile. “Apparently, your bonny angel is- well, Samuel says you were immediately intoxicated and quite giddy. Whether from, ah, feeling not exactly platonic or just sensing the divine, I’m afraid I don’t know. Perhaps a mixture of cause and effect. Drink this.”

Obeying, he pulls a face at the taste, and hands the container back. She’s studying him, a surprised expression on her face. “What?”

“You… you just did it." She waves a hand to encompass him. "No suspicion. No threats. You _obeyed_.”

She starts working on another concoction- Remedy Part II, he guesses.

“You’re not here to hurt me,” he answers. “Why wouldn’t I?” Something spikes in the way she smells, tangy like orange slices, and he thinks he may have embarrassed her, but then he's immediately distracted again, reaching forward once more for a glinting ringlet. “I like your hair.”

 

Two concoctions later, the room loses the dreamlike quality for something more real, before he starts feeling very heavy and _very_ sleepy.

“Samuel!” Rowena calls, stepping to the side as Sam rounds the corner, catching Dean as he slumps forward, half-asleep already. “The rest is sleep,” she soothes, fingers gentle where they touch him, before everything goes black.

He comes only partially to later, awakened by the sense of a familiar presence that has him reaching out blindly, index finger hooking around the tips of Castiel’s that hang over the arm of the chair.

Material shifts, and Dean can tell his patient waiting is replaced with alert relief. He cracks open a eye, trying to focus even as he feels himself drifting back under.

“Sorry…’bout before.” He yawns and snuggles more comfortably into his pillow and memory foam mattress, settling. “You still smell nice, though. I like it. I like _you_.” Sleep saps strength from his arm, making his hand fall away. “You always smell nice… like catnip.”

If he was going to say more than that, he doesn’t get to, and he doesn’t remember it when he wakes up.

He buys Rowena some specialty tea as a thank-you, and sends it with a card.

He still zones out sometimes. At the scent of coffee or flowers or as light refracts brightly, often murmuring serenely to himself, and it’ll take him a moment to come back, to shake away the fog like a dream he immediately forgets.

“Dean?”

Green eyes drift to the angel that had been walking beside him, then down to the bouquet of sunflowers he vaguely remembers selecting from the cart. “They’re you.” Cas clearly lacks all understanding in his meaning, which is drifting so quickly, Dean hardly remembers it himself. “They look like you,” he tries, knowing it’s not right, not what he means, but his grip is loose as Castiel takes them from him.

A flush spreads across the angel’s cheeks and Dean wonders at it and then down at the flowers he’s holding, gesturing to them and trying to remember when they stopped. “...you like those or something? We can get ‘em for the bunker if you want.”

Cas angles his head, smiling. “I do like them.” He steps forward, gaze dropping to Dean’s mouth and then back up. “And, you don’t remember this conversation, but… I like you, too, Dean.” His brows knit as he tries to remember the exact wording. “Like catnip.”

Dean doesn’t remember, but something beyond memory does, something that has him smoothing a hand up the line of Cas’ neck to cup his jaw and slot their mouths together.

Dean freaking _loves_ witches.

**END**

 

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